The Raven Master

by Diana Whitney

  With a distraught whimper, she clutched the bedclothes and mentally recounted the mounting evidence. She didn’t want to believe that a man as tender and loving as Quinn had the capacity for murder but the circumstances surrounding Cynthia’s death had dealt an almost mortal blow to her faith.

  Outside, the wind moaned like a human cry, an eerie echo of Quinn’s own whispered warning. Trust no one…especially me.

  As that veiled warning took on a more sinister tone, Janine was frightened, confused and certain of only one thing: If the man she loved was a cold-blooded killer, she could be his next victim.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was late afternoon before the deputies completed their search, and Janine was thankful that the guests had been out during the chaos. Edna’s shift at the clinic hadn’t ended until four and Jules had apparently spent the day in Eugene. Althea, still nursing her snit, had spent the night elsewhere and still hadn’t returned.

  Unfortunately, however, Jules and his grandmother had driven up as the deputies were leaving and required a lengthy and unpleasant explanation that she would have preferred to avoid. Upon hearing that a warrant had been issued for Quinn’s arrest—Janine scrupulously avoided details—Jules had smirked silently while Edna graciously announced that she and her grandson would dine in town before church that evening. Janine had been grateful for a reprieve from attempting to prepare a meal in a kitchen that looked like a war zone.

  After they’d left, Janine had spent nearly two hours restoring order to the ransacked pantry and returning dishes, utensils and cookware to cupboards that had been emptied by the marauding officers.

  Now it was past sundown, and she was finally able to drag herself upstairs to determine what, if anything, could be done to repair the havoc wreaked in Quinn’s devastated bedroom. When she flipped on the light, the raven emitted the menacing hiss that she now recognized as pure bluster.

  “Give it a rest,” she muttered to the ruffled bird, then sat tiredly on the chair and surveyed the damage. Empty drawers were piled on the floor, crumpled clothing was strewn everywhere and even the bed had been stripped of linens and thoroughly inspected. The upended mattress was still propped against a wall.

  A cool breeze swirled through the open window, lifting the fine hairs at her nape. The fresh air felt delicious but she had no time to appreciate the lovely spring night. As foolish as it seemed, she didn’t want Quinn to see that his privacy had been so callously violated. Even if he never returned—a thought too distressing to seriously consider—she was much too fastidious to accept such a disheveled mess in her home. So she had work to do.

  With a pained sigh, she started by wrestling the mattress back on top of the box spring. After she’d muscled the awkward thing into position, she threw the trampled bed-clothes into the hallway and retrieved fresh sheets from the linen closet.

  When the bed had been neatly made, she began the tedious process of restocking the closet and folding the garments that had been heaped on the floor. Janine still didn’t understand what the deputies had been looking for and suspected that they didn’t, either.

  One officer had been particularly excited about a supply of gasoline kept for the backup generator. Rhodes, however, had pointed out that no trace of liquid accelerant had been found at the fire scene so the deflated deputy had returned the confiscated fuel container to the basement.

  So as far as Janine knew, the only “evidence” produced by the massive effort had been the dog-eared photograph of Cynthia and a brush containing samples of Quinn’s hair. What the deputies hadn’t found, however, was most bothersome.

  Quinn’s revolver was missing.

  She assumed, of course, that he’d taken the weapon with him and was unsettled to know that he was armed. Still, she hadn’t told Rhodes about the gun for the same reason that she hadn’t mentioned the secret tunnel—she simply couldn’t bring herself to believe that Quinn was a killer and had rationalized the mounting evidence as purely circumstantial.

  Initially her faith had been severely tested when she’d learned the details of Cynthia’s death, but as the day progressed, she’d mentally twisted the facts to justify other possibilities. Now she sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully smoothed a white T-shirt and tried to convince herself that, although perjured testimony could be considered a motive for murder, the woman might have had other enemies as well.

  Perhaps the hit-and-run victim’s family had discovered that Cynthia, not Quinn, had been behind the wheel. But that was difficult to believe. If there had been any evidence to that effect, Quinn would never have been convicted.

  Janine laid down the folded shirt and massaged her stiff neck, considering other possibilities. Even if the grieving kin believed the court version, they may have still held Cynthia partially responsible because she’d admitted being at the scene.

  Now that made sense. In fact, the more Janine stretched credibility, the more loopholes she found. But the main flaw in Rhodes’s logic was the Marjorie Barker connection. There was no motive and not a shred of evidence that Quinn had even met Marjorie.

  There were, of course, certain psychopathic personalities for whom the thrill of the kill was motive enough but Janine dismissed that horrible idea. Quinn Coulliard was no psychopath. In spite of having been cruelly betrayed by his fiancée, he was a man of compassion and great tenderness. She’d seen his gentle side. She’d touched it, been moved by it. Even now her skin tingled with the memory of how his sweet caresses had ignited the fiery passion in her soul.

  She fingered the folded T-shirt, then lifted it to her face and inhaled the faint scent lingering in the soft cotton. Quinn’s essence enveloped her, invaded her, aroused her. The images sharpened. She remembered the electric feel of his fingertips sliding across her bare skin, the pounding of her heart as his lips brushed down her throat and beyond. Closing her eyes, she clutched the fragrant fabric to her breast and remembered every joyous moment of their love-making.

  And then she remembered how he’d sent her away.

  Instantly sobered, Janine wiped her moist eyes, shook off the bittersweet memories and quickly completed her task. She put away the folded garments and forcefully closed the dresser drawer. The sharp slam startled Edgar. The raven screeched and flapped frantically, repeatedly beating his wing against the wall.

  Janine tried to soothe the nervous bird. “It’s okay,” she murmured, moving slowly toward the narrow corner where Rhodes had shoved the goosenecked perch. “Be a good bird and I’ll put the lamp back where it belongs, okay?” At her approach, Edgar’s back feathers lifted ominously and his beak parted in a silent threat.

  She hesitated. “Let’s make a deal here. I’ll move your perch if you promise not to put holes in my skin. Does that sound like a good plan?” When she reached slowly toward the lamp stem, however, the raven aimed a sharp peck at her wrist. Yanking her hand away, she took a quick step back and rubbed the stinging welt. “You are an ungrateful brat.”

  Edgar cawed irritably.

  “Look, you’re not the only one who’s had a lousy day so let’s cut each other some slack, all right?” Janine frowned and massaged her eyelids. Now she was negotiating with a bird. It was ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous, but the worst part was that for a brief, insane moment, she’d actually been waiting for a reply.

  Shaking her head, she dropped to her knees as Rhodes had done and crept forward until she could touch the lamp. But the sheriff had simply slid the weighted base forward into the corner. Janine had to grasp the stem and drag the lamp against the carpet grain as she crawled awkwardly backward. For Edgar, the trip was not a smooth one. The bird screeched with every jerk, and the lamp swayed dangerously.

  She muttered under her breath as the circular base tipped enough to dig into the nylon fibers. She tugged gently, then with a bit more force. The lamp tilted. Janine ducked. Edgar shrieked.

  As she shielded her head with one arm, the terrified raven leaped straight up and fluttered onto the dresser as the goosene
cked perch crashed to the floor.

  Stunned, she peeked under her elbow, then sat back on her heels and moaned in frustration. Shards of the shattered light bulb were scattered across the floor and the lamp base had split in half. She should have left well enough alone. Now the poor bird was terrified, and its perch was in pieces.

  Hoping to repair the damage, she inspected a flat metal circle that had separated from the base, glanced toward the convex portion that was still attached to the stem and noticed a brown paper triangle sticking out. A closer look revealed that a manila envelope had been curved to the proper shape and taped inside the lamp base.

  The hairs on her nape tingled.

  With trembling fingers, she removed the envelope, opened it and shook out the contents. A dozen yellowed news clippings fluttered to the floor. Dazed, she shifted through them until a newsprint photo caught her eye. Her stomach twisted as she recognized Cynthia Zabrow’s image. The faded headline read Spurned Lover Questioned In Arson Death.

  The accompanying article verified what Rhodes had revealed earlier, adding that although the police considered Quinn as their prime suspect they’d lacked sufficient evidence for an arrest.

  The remaining articles documented several other fatal fires, which had taken place over the past seven years in such widespread locales as Boston, Seattle, Boise and some dinky Nevada town that Janine had never heard of. From the meager information provided, she didn’t see any connection between the gruesome incidents but apparently someone did.

  Someone? She slumped forward, propping her forehead on one fist. No matter how valiantly she tried to absolve Quinn of responsibility, there was no doubt that the clippings belonged to him, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he’d hidden them to conceal the information they contained.

  But except for the article about Cynthia, the other incidents seemed to have no relationship to Quinn whatsoever. Perplexed, she arranged them in chronological order and noticed that one article from Southern California that seemed particularly out of place.

  It was an upbeat story about a bookstore owner sponsoring a church camp for disadvantaged youngsters. The accompanying photograph showed the chaotic clutter of about a dozen manned fund-raising tables. In the foreground the event sponsor was hugging a smiling blond volunteer.

  As human interest stories went, this one seemed rather mundane, but as she scanned the first paragraph a familiar name leaped out like a death scream. With her heart pounding in denial, she reread the piece again and again and again until dazed numbness turned to stark horror.

  Anxiously scrutinizing the faded photo, Janine was stunned to recognize Marjorie Barker as the bookstore owner. The volunteer she was so fervently embracing was the woman in Quinn’s tattered photograph—Cynthia Zabrow.

  The clipping fluttered from Janine’s limp fingers. The article offered more than photographic evidence that Cynthia and Marjorie had been acquainted. It also provided the missing link connecting Quinn Coulliard to murder.

  Illuminating the keyhole with a penlight, Quinn inserted a homemade lock pick and felt the tumblers slip. With a final glance toward the darkened street—and the pin-striped pickup he’d borrowed from the lumberyard parking lot—he slipped inside the brick building and crept down the deserted hallway.

  Following dim light pools cast by small ceiling domes, Quinn cautiously traversed the main corridor. When the passageway emptied into an expansive lobby, he flattened against the wall and peered around the corner.

  The guard station was across the room, not far from the building’s double-doored entry area. A security guard lounged behind the counter, feet propped on the desk, sipping a soft drink and engrossed in watching a sports event on the tiny television nested in his lap.

  Considering the guard’s distraction to be a stroke of luck, Quinn stealthily moved to the clinic’s suite directory situated in the center of the lobby. Concealed from the guard station by the massive glassed board, he scanned the list and located a name he recognized from a business card in Jules’s room: Aaron Orbach, M.D.—Adult Adolescent Psychiatry, Suite 207.

  Keeping a watchful eye on the preoccupied guard, he backtracked quietly, slipped into the main corridor and headed toward the marked doorway he’d passed on the way in. With a final glance down the darkened hall, he slipped inside the stairwell. The passageway was cramped and lighted only with small bulbs at the landing. He switched on his trusty penlight and followed the slender beam to the second floor.

  After emerging into a narrow hallway studded with doors, Quinn found Suite 207 and examined the lock. Because the tenants relied on guards, the building’s entrance doors hadn’t been wired to an alarm system. He fervently hoped that such lackadaisical security measures extended to the individual medical offices. Tripping an alarm could be a fatal mistake but he’d run out of options. The sheriff was on to him now. He had nothing to lose.

  Wiping away her tears, Janine choked back another sob and struggled with an agonizing decision. Should she hide the clippings? Burn them? Turn them over to the sheriff?

  No. She couldn’t betray Quinn.

  Even if he’s a murderer?

  “He isn’t,” she whispered aloud. “He couldn’t be.”

  The evidence says otherwise.

  “Damn the evidence!” She angrily swiped at the pile, scattering paper bits randomly over the floor. Clutching her abdomen, she slowly rocked back and forth and tried to convince herself that she was overreacting. After all, a few stupid articles filled with vague innuendo and disjointed supposition weren’t proof of anything. So what if Quinn’s fiancée had known Marjorie Barker? Cynthia probably had had a lot of friends Quinn had never met. The fact that both Cynthia and Marjorie had suffered similar fates was pure coincidence…

  With a distraught whimper, Janine covered her face with both hands. In her desperation to absolve Quinn of responsibility for the heinous crimes, she’d mentally created a defense so lame that even she didn’t believe it.

  Finally she sniffed, wiped her cheek on her sleeve and realized that she’d been deluding herself. Facts were facts. People had died, and despite her silent denials evidence indicated that Quinn had been involved. If Janine concealed everything she now knew, there could be other deaths. She couldn’t stand idly by and allow that to happen. She had to turn the documents over to the sheriff. There was no other choice, but the decision broke her heart.

  Taking a deep breath, she gathered the clippings and was hastily stuffing them into the envelope when the raven cawed a warning. Janine glanced over her shoulder and frowned. “What’s wrong now?”

  As the agitated bird hopped and flapped, she heard something peculiar. Actually it was more vibration than sound. She hesitated, then laid her palms on the floor and waited. A moment later, she felt another minute vibration, which was followed by a faint creaking, like footsteps on a warped floorboard.

  Or the sound of rusty hinges.

  Janine froze. Only she and Quinn knew about the hidden panel. After a few more moments, she heard another sound but this time it seemed to be coming from downstairs. She relaxed slightly, assuming one of her tenants must have come in and the creaking sound had been nothing more than a warped stair.

  Still, it was odd that she’d heard the stair squeak before she’d heard the downstairs noise. She shook off a disquieting sensation. Perhaps someone had returned earlier and come upstairs when she’d been too preoccupied to notice, then decided to get a snack from the kitchen and returned to the lower floor.

  She rose and quietly crossed the room. She put her ear to the door and heard footsteps in the hallway. Someone was definitely upstairs. Gathering her courage, she carefully opened the door and looked down the deserted hallway. She stepped out, berating herself for being so skittish.

  But what if it was Quinn? If she confronted him with what she’d found, would she be in danger? As she glanced back at the manila envelope, a tiny voice in her brain whispered that Quinn would never hurt her.

  Mentally
fortified, she managed to croak out a greeting. “Hello?” Silence. “Is anyone there?” When there still was no reply, she moved cautiously toward the landing. “Edna? Jules? Is that you?”

  Emerging at the point where the two upstairs hallways joined, her gaze was riveted on the hidden panel. It was closed tight and she saw no fresh mud on the carpet. A quick glance downstairs confirmed that the front door was still locked. There was no evidence that Quinn—or anyone else—had returned.

  Her breath slid out slowly. Apparently her shattered nerves had magnified normal settling sounds from the crumbling old structure into something sinister. Feeling supremely stupid, she massaged a stiff shoulder and rolled her neck. Every inch of her body ached, and now her head was beginning to throb.

  She glanced at her watch. Although it was barely past nine, she was utterly exhausted and the thought of dragging herself to the sheriff’s station was less than appealing. Something urged her to go, anyway, but after a brief mental argument, she decided that tomorrow would be soon enough. Perhaps the respite would allow time for some kind of miraculous reprieve—

  A shadow loomed from behind her.

  Whirling, Janine touched her throat, then steadied herself against the wall and tried to catch her breath. “You scared me half to death.” When there was no response, she was instantly concerned. “Is something wrong?” Extending her hand, she took a step forward. “What is it? Tell me what’s happened.”

  Edna’s eyes were filled with misery. “Armageddon,” she whispered. “It has begun.”

  After jimmying the locked file cabinet, Quinn slid the pick into his pocket and used the penlight to search through Orbach’s patient records. He’d already found the meticulously labeled session tapes, but since it would take hours to review the recordings, he hoped that Orbach had written summaries of his findings.

  As Quinn flipped through the marked folders, his professional conscience cringed. Violating the confidentiality of a psychiatrist and patient was not only against the law, it ruffled the moral grain of his deepest convictions. But when he found the file he’d been seeking, conscience was overwhelmed by urgency.